


The Journeyman

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-13 22:51:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3399179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for series 2.  D'Artagnan's position with the regiment is strengthening, but his journey is a difficult one as he comes to a slow realisation over his relationships with both Constance and Athos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Thinking about it, d'Artagnan's not certain when he fell out of love with Constance Bonacieux. During those early, slightly heady days of his new life in Paris, she had meant everything to him. She was his North Star and, once they'd finally fallen into bed, she became the sun that shone brightly, feeding his heart with her radiance. 

This is all poetic nonsense, of course. Things change-- _people_ change--and now he and Constance spend their days bickering, occasionally caring enough to gaze at each other across a sea of courtiers. The irrefutable truth is that when she's not there, d'Artagnan barely even thinks of her.

It's Athos who helps him come to terms with his change of heart. Not with words of course. This is Athos: a man who has so much language at his disposal and yet rarely forms a sentence unless prompted. No, it's that bottomless pit of feelings for Milady that is evidence to d'Artagnan of what true love is all about.

Athos and Milady are a broken, destructive example of romance, but when they're together, sparks flying between them, everything that surrounds them becomes tinder.

Watching Athos dissolve into silent misery hurts d'Artagnan deeply, and to know that it is partly his fault for gossiping in public stings even more. He hopes to make amends for revealing the truth about Milady’s affair with the king, and is surprised and pleased to discover that afterwards Athos wants him as a drinking companion.

That night he puts away enough wine to make himself gravely ill, and as d'Artagnan nurses him through the sickness, holding his head and cleaning him up when necessary, he talks to him in gentle words, hoping to offer some respite, but it's no use. Even throughout this episode, the man remains silent, his pain too bitter to share.

Despite every flaw, d'Artagnan never fails to admire Athos. Even melancholy with drink, there is something steadfastly honourable about the broken down soldier. He sees the good in people and is always there to help. He will offer the hand of friendship to all, even to a snake like Rochefort. He will assist anyone who needs him, whether it be a con artist from the Court of Miracles, or a peasant girl with visions. D'Artagnan is certain that Athos' faith in humanity is the reason he will not give up on Milady. In his heart she will always be Anne, his wife. His life. His love.

Under the guidance of his mentor, it is not just swordsmanship that d'Artagnan learns from Athos, it is an entire value system. Once hot headed, he is now less quick to judge, and tries to show mercy and consideration to others on every occasion. If Athos can do it, under the weight of his burden, then so can he. 

It is for this reason that when Athos goes missing, d'Artagnan knows that something is wrong. He understands him as well as anyone can. Knows his habits and rituals and, with absolute certainty in his heart, he convinces the other Musketeers that, however low Athos might be feeling, he is not lying drunk in some out of the way alehouse.

The strength of d'Artagnan's conviction leads them to Athos' room, and from there a pile of letters sends the four Musketeers on a journey to a small village called Pinon, part of the lands belonging to the Comte de la Fère.

On arrival, d'Artagnan is shocked by the scene that greets them. It’s hard to imagine a less noble sight. Athos is bound and filthy, and d'Artagnan is about to leap from his horse to go free him when Porthos gets there first.

From that moment onwards, d'Artagnan's faith takes a severe beating. Athos is battered and bruised. He's exhausted after the events of the last few days and his surliness is only to be expected. None of his comrades, however, expect him to walk away from this matter, leaving the people of Pinon to suffer at Baron Renard’s cruel hands.

"You cannot just go," says d'Artagnan. 

"If I didn't know you better, Athos, this sounds a lot like cowardice," agrees Porthos and d'Artagnan can see how surprised the big man is when Athos pushes silently past him to get to his horse, which they have brought with them from Paris.

"It's not your fight," he says, mounting up and riding off along the track that leads through the woodland.

"It is now," growls Porthos.

Used to Athos' ways, Porthos and Aramis remain nonchalant over his attitude, and set off to free the innkeeper's daughter, Jeanne, from Renard’s clutches. 

D'Artagnan, is finding it harder to cope with Athos' uncharacteristically poor behaviour, but despite his level of disillusionment, he and Treville rally the villagers, and watch, in ever increasing silence, as they produce a horde of makeshift weapons. There is nothing here of any use at all.

"We can't do this," says Treville in an aside to d'Artagnan. "We can't hold back an army of men with sticks and stones." He looks despairingly at the haul on the table. "Have you any firearms at all?" he asks the innkeeper.

"There are some at the house," says a voice from the doorway.

D'Artagnan's chest swells with pride. He stands up and takes a step toward Athos, unable to suppress his smile of delight. "You came back."

"Do you want to get the weapons, or would you rather stay here and chat?"

Flooded with relief, d'Artagnan follows Athos across the yard, and catching up to him, he rests an arm affectionately across the man’s shoulders.

"You drive," says Athos, his lips curling into a smirk as he climbs up into the cart. "Coming from a farm, I assume you're used to such methods of transport."

"And coming from nobility I assume you’re used to being obnoxious." This time d'Artagnan slaps Athos firmly on the shoulder and the unmistakable wince of pain reminds him that he must ask Aramis to check their stoic comrade for wounds once the fight is won. There is no knowing what injuries Athos might be carrying without complaint.

"Touché," says Athos, smiling again. It seems he is not too damaged -- in a physical sense that is.

At first sight of the burnt out mansion, d'Artagnan draws in a worried breath. It’s so much worse than he remembered, and he wonders how Athos must be feeling. He knows what it's like to have one’s property razed to the ground, but this is different to his own situation. This place is home to all of Athos' pent up emotions, both good and bad.

"Why did you change your mind?" he asks as they enter the building.

"You were right," says Athos. "The people of Pinon do not deserve to pay for my mistakes."

He leads d'Artagnan through to a hidden armoury, and together they examine the weapons.

"Battered but just about serviceable," says Athos, inspecting a flintlock and then sliding it into his belt.

"Is that you or the pistol you're talking about," says d'Artagnan.

Athos looks up at him, and just for a second his eyes light up as he lets out this tiny huff of laughter. D'Artagnan has never seen this happen before and, in all honesty, he never thought it possible. Something inside him swells and then bursts. He's proud: overjoyed to have been the one to make Athos happy.

But the reaction to this is sudden. Athos bends his head and makes this equally tiny, equally emotive sound of misery and, without hesitation, d'Artagnan crosses the room and closes the gap between them, determined to offer comfort, even if it is not wanted.

Squeezing Athos' shoulder, he slips his other arm around the man and pulls him close. "You're allowed to feel," he murmurs, holding Athos against him.

Permission granted, Athos rests his face against d'Artagnan and though he doesn't cry--he barely makes any sound at all--he does finally collapse, letting go of his heartbreak in a wave of palpable unhappiness.

D'Artagnan breathes in dirt and sweat and the sourness of wine mixed with the tang of old leather. It should be foul, but there is nothing repulsive about it whatsoever. It _is_ Athos. It seeps from his pores, filling d'Artagnan's senses, and it's then he realises that he was _never_ in love with Constance Bonacieux.

“Thank you,” says Athos, stepping clear of the embrace. 

He wanders away, and for the first time since being here, d’Artagnan becomes horribly aware that this armoury doubles as the family tomb.

“I never intended to return to this place,” says Athos, wiping the dust from the top of a single casket that’s set in the middle of the floor. “There are too many ghosts here.”

“I’ll ask Aramis to exorcise them for you,” says d’Artagnan, joining him and looking down at the name engraved on the plaque: Thomas d’Athos.

“Perhaps he can deal with the dead, but what can he do about about the living?” says Athos as he picks up a keg of powder. “Come on. We must take this lot back to Pinon and see if we can raise a militia.”

Athos’ mysterious past takes an even more interesting turn at the arrival of Catherine, a woman who was once betrothed to Athos’ brother Thomas. She is vocal in her hatred of Milady de Winter, so much so that she is provoked into slapping Athos soundly across the face upon hearing the news that the woman is alive and well, living in Paris under the king’s protection.

“It never ends,” Athos says as he looks helplessly at d’Artagnan. “I’m tired. Tired of everything.”

D’Artagnan wishes he could make life better for him. At very least, he wishes he had some words of advice, but in his head everything sounds trite and Athos needs help, not platitudes.

“Now that we have some weapons we can sort out the troubles at Pinon and go back to Paris,” is all he comes up with.

“And what will we do about the troubles there?” says Athos with a heavy sigh. “I honestly don’t know if I can bear seeing Anne as the king’s mistress, day in and day out.”

With Treville relieved of command and Athos on the brink of resigning his commission, d’Artagnan feels the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Don’t be hasty,” he begs. “You’ll feel better after a fight. You love a good fight.”

“I do indeed,” says Athos and he manages a weary smile for d’Artagnan’s benefit.

Back at the village, everyone has gathered in the inn, chattering excitedly about the brave Musketeers who rescued the innkeeper’s daughter from the baron. Jeanne may be safely back home, much to her father’s delight, but Aramis and Porthos bring with them a warning that Renard will not give up his designs on Pinon easily.

The people fall silent as their lord and master enters the tavern, whether it’s out of respect or suspicion, d’Artagnan is unable to tell. Athos’ opening gambit goes down badly, and they seem unimpressed by the idea of self management until he loses his temper with them.

“The land can rot, for all I care. I have no use for it,” he says to the sound of disgruntled murmurings, but they prick up their ears at his next words. “Take it. You and your families have worked it for generations. It’s yours if you want it, but you _must_ fight for it.”

D’Artagnan listens to Athos’ rallying speech, backed up by Treville’s own call to arms, and he’s impressed with the man for finding something within himself, when he’s so very low, that’s enough to inspire these beaten down townsfolk.

“I’m proud of you, Athos,” he says as the Musketeers bed down for the night in one of the village barns.

“Don’t waste your pride, or your pity, or your time on me,” says Athos and the sound of a hitched breath in the darkness causes d’Artagnan actual physical pain.

At sun up, the five soldiers pack away their bedrolls and wait in the village square to see how many arrive for training. It’s a sorry showing to begin with. One young lad and an elderly couple are hardly likely to sway the battle their way.

“We should go,” says Athos, all too keen to make his escape.

“Wait,” says d’Artagnan raising his hand as people trickle out of their houses, piling in to be counted. He smiles at Athos. “Look. They’re willing to take up arms. Are you?”

The training is a haphazard affair and the battle not much better, but they win and win well. The baron’s son Edmond is determined to end matters duelling unsuccessfully with Athos, but it’s Catherine who twists the issue once again, threatening to shoot Athos for betraying her.

He’s reasoning with her when Edmond launches a sly attack with his dagger. Catherine fires her pistol--at whom no one can be sure--and the two men collapse in a heap. 

For a moment it seems certain that Athos will finally be allowed the rest that he’s been longing for. D’Artagnan cannot move, cannot think even, and as fear turns his legs to rubber he looks around at the other Musketeers. Why is no one rushing to help?

When Athos climbs unsteadily to his feet, d'Artagnan recovers himself enough to hurry over and speak to him.

"Are you harmed?" he says, holding him by the shoulders, near to pulling him in for another embrace.

"I'm fine," says Athos, shaking him off.

D'Artagnan can see from his eyes that this is a lie. He is more haunted than ever as he watches Renard weep over the body of his dead son. 

"He loved him," he continues. "He wanted my lands for him. I should have handed them over."

"And go against your own people's wishes?" says d'Artagnan in a sudden fit of pique. "You heard what Porthos and Aramis told us. The girl was tied up ready to be a prize for that bastard. Do you lot think yourselves so much better than us?"

Athos shakes his head. "Where is Catherine?" he asks wearily.

"Gone," says Porthos, coming over to join them. "She scarpered as soon as she’d fired her pistol at you." He wraps a hefty arm around Athos' shoulders. "You had us worried, brother."

Athos smiles a little, but he is surrounded by ghosts on all sides.

There are celebrations that night in the tavern, with much singing and dancing taking place, Aramis and Porthos at centre stage and Treville watching from the sidelines, not quite ready to be one of the boys just yet.

Athos is back to his old ways, drinking silently, desperately in a darkened corner of the room, pushing everyone away who comes near.

Trying to make amends for his earlier words, D'Artagnan can't help but fuss over him. Too much in the end it seems, when eventually Athos gets up, steady on his legs and none the worse for the amount of brandy he's imbibed. "I have business to attend to back at the house."

"I'll come with you," says d'Artagnan, immediately getting to his feet.

"You will not," hisses Athos, striding out of the inn.

Treville has been watching this unfold, the alpha wolf guarding his pack. "Leave him be," he says to d'Artagnan. "He needs his space."

D'Artagnan sits back down heavily. How can he explain to Treville and the others the extent of Athos' hopelessness, without betraying his friend? "I worry that he will not return," he says in the end.

"He will," says Treville simply. "Have faith in him. He's been battling these same demons for years. He always ends up the victor."

Except for the one time he doesn't, thinks d'Artagnan in a panic, because by then it will be too late to help. There is a certainty, held by all who know him, that Athos will drink himself to death one day.

Treville may not be commander in name, but in spirit he will always be their leader. His words turn out to be the truth, and by morning Athos is back in Pinon handing over an official letter awarding mayorship to Bertrand, and with it the seal of the Comte de la Fère. It is not title to the lands, but it signifies freedom.

Athos is bleary eyed, wine soaked and filthier than ever, but he is here and whole and honourable, and that is more than enough to raise d'Artagnan's spirits. 

He thanks them for their assistance, but d'Artagnan brushes his words aside. "You did not do this because of us,” he says. “You did it for your people.” He nods at the villagers who are lined up to bid their lord farewell for a final time. 

"They are not mine any longer," says Athos as he gees on his horse and rides into the woodland.

They do not hurry back to Paris. The countryside is beautiful, the weather pleasant, and if it weren't for Porthos and Aramis the day would be perfect.

"Who is this mysterious Catherine?" says Aramis.

"An old friend," says Athos. "We grew up together. She was betrothed to my brother."

"Not too friendly now." Porthos' voice rumbles with amusement. "Seeing as she was intent on killing you."

"Have you not noticed that all women who have any connection to Athos are, sooner or later, intent on killing him?" laughs Aramis.

"It explains why he doesn't have many lady friends," laughs Porthos. "Madame de Larroque will no doubt turn up demanding his head."

The teasing is nothing more than their usual affectionate banter, but it continues on incessantly, the two men not even relenting when they break their journey to rest the horses at an inn.

"Athos is exhausted. He hasn't slept for days," says d'Artagnan in an aside to Treville. "We'll stop here for the night."

"Are you giving me the orders now?" says Treville with a sideways glance.

D'Artagnan ignores this remark. "You continue on with Aramis and Porthos. I'll stay here with Athos."

"We're a few hours ride from the garrison." Treville stares at him. "There is no need."

"Athos needs me," says d'Artagnan quietly. They both look across at the weary man. “And you need to speak to Porthos, to settle whatever trouble there is between you."

Treville smiles and pats d'Artagnan on the shoulder. "I think perhaps Athos was right in what he said about you, lad."

"Which was?" D'Artagnan is more than a little intrigued.

"For my ears only," says Treville. "I'll take the ruffians back to Paris and you see if you can lay some of Athos' ghosts."

D'Artagnan cocks his head to one side. He'd thought he was the only one who could see the haunting, but perhaps it’s visible to all those who look deeply at the man.

Athos is tired enough not to fight this decision, and seems more than happy to watch the other three men ride away.

"Thank you," he says, and it is the third time in as many days that he has shown honest, if surly gratitude.

"I'd ask you to show your thanks by not falling into a bottle, but I doubt there's much point," d'Artagnan replies.

Athos smiles at him. "You are right in your guesswork, d'Artagnan."

Whilst Athos drinks himself into a mild stupor, d'Artagnan pays the landlady for baths and soap. The towel, as usual, is thrown in free but he hands over a sou or two extra for clean linen and fresh water.

"Up you get," he says, hauling Athos to his feet when he gets a nod that the tubs have been filled. "You need to wash off some of the stink of Pinon."

"Am I that rancid?" smirks Athos as he stumbles into the washroom with his arm locked around d'Artagnan's waist.

D'Artagnan breathes him in, wondering how the combination of unpleasant aromas can lead to something so comforting to his nostrils. "Yes," he laughs as he helps Athos out of his clothes. "You're disgusting. Now get in the bath and wash."

With something that sounds suspiciously like another huff of laughter, Athos does as he's told, and, smiling with satisfaction, d'Artagnan strips off and scrubs their shirts and underthings in his own tub of water until they are passably clean. It is only when he sinks into the bath that he is reminded of Milady de Winter. Athos’ ghosts are manifesting for him as well and he pushes her away.

"Don't fall asleep," he says to Athos who is lounging back, about to slide under the surface. "Drowning is not an option."

Athos turns and smiles at him, then sits up to wash his hair and d'Artagnan is wracked by a painful, pleasurable wave of emotion. It frightens him, and to take his mind off his fears he sets to, scrubbing himself down with the tiny remnant of soap.

It is when Athos climbs out of the water that d'Artagnan notices the painful looking blossom of bruises that spread across one side of his ribcage.

“You _are_ hurt,” he says in concern.

"Nothing is broken," Athos says. "You fret too much." He wraps a towel around his waist and picks up his belongings.

The room they’re renting is little more than a cupboard, but the bed is large enough for two, and with their clothes drying in the open window, they fall naked and exhausted beneath the sheets. They've shared beds a hundred times before, and d'Artagnan wishes it felt the same tonight as it had done on those other occasions. Uncomfortable with need, he clings to the far edge of the palliasse, barely daring to breathe.

"You’re not sleeping so why pretend?" says Athos after a while. "I thought we were beyond that."

They _have_ grown closer these past few days, and d'Artagnan is pleased that Athos acknowledges it, but how does he explain that he feels too much?

Turning in the bed, he looks at Athos, moonlight illuminating the room just enough for him to see an expression of utter relaxation on the man's face. The sight is enough to cause his cock to fill until it aches. 

"This was a mistake," he says in a panic. "I'm sorry. I should never... I don't even know when it happened."

"When what happened?" asks Athos, mystified.

"I care about you." If d'Artagnan says nothing then he will be a coward and it will do him no good. His feelings for Athos are neither ephemeral, nor are they born from a fairytale idea of romance. They're base and they’re much too real. He doesn't want them. He's tried to push them away, but they won't go.

Athos sighs. "I have no room inside me for love, d'Artagnan. If I did...."

It’s a lie that Athos has just spoken, even if he doesn't know it himself. He is overflowing with love, but all of it is set aside for Milady de Winter. 

"If you did?" presses d'Artagnan.

"Then I should be proud to have you as mine."

D'Artagnan swells to these words in so many ways: his body, his heart, his hopes. Affairs between men are a capital offence, but soldiers are far more understanding of such things. Concern for a valued comrade, with the added nuance of danger, can easily turn to sex.

"Let me take care of you," he says. He can feel the heat of Athos' body. Can breathe in his scent, clean now, but still with that distinctive musk. His senses are alert to everything. "It's all I ask.”

"If I were a better man I would say yes to you." Athos pauses. "Perhaps if I were a worse one also."

He does not pull away when d'Artagnan shuffles in closer until their bodies are a scant inch apart.

"I don’t want a better man, or a worse one," he says and he presses his lips to Athos' brow. "I want you." His mouth moves down over closed eyelids and slanted cheekbones. "If you regret this tomorrow, I give you permission to thrash me."

"I do not require your permission," says Athos with laughter in his voice, and when he finally kisses d'Artagnan, it’s life changing.

With neither of them knowing the intricacies of sex between two men, they're awkward with each other at first, but as they roll together in the sheets, kissing an endless pleasure for them, the simple things follow on naturally. Cock grinds against cock, and this proves to be of greater excitement than either man thought possible.

"We can learn the rest later," d'Artagnan says breathlessly as he pushes up against Athos' forceful thrusts.

"Unless I'm too busy thrashing you," smirks Athos.

Even in the near darkness, d'Artagnan can see a light in those eyes and it fires him up. Twisting them over until he's on top, he braces himself on an arm and takes both cocks in hand, rubbing them off together. A fraction away from coming, he falls back into Athos' arms and they kiss each other to a happy conclusion.

"Any regrets yet?" he says once he has recovered his breath.

"None, but I'm probably still drunk, so ask me again in the morning." Athos is smiling. "You?"

D'Artagnan laughs. "Only that I wasted money on a bath."

"Are you able to sleep now?"

"Without doubt." He loves the feel of Athos' lips moving against his skin. "You?"

"I believe I can." Athos wraps an arm around d'Artagnan, holding him close and yawning as he buries himself in the juncture of neck and torso. 

The next words from his mouth are more painful to listen to, but they _are_ true and support the fact that Athos is, in all ways, an honourable man. 

"I cannot love you, d'Artagnan. Please don't expect me to do so."

"I'm happy as we are," says d'Artagnan, safe in the knowledge that one day Athos will have to let go of his past.


	2. Chapter 2

The moment d’Artagnan sets off towards Constance, he realises what a huge mistake he’s making. He’s acting purely on instinct, needing to know that she’s unharmed and coping after the ordeal that she’s been through. His intentions, however, are less romantic than they appear to the onlookers, if the murmurings of delight are anything to go by.

The declaration of love is truthful on his part, although meant only in the spirit of friendship. The kisses that follow on from it are awkward, and d’Artagnan has never felt more embarrassed, caught up in this passionless embrace, under the watchful eyes of the king and queen of France, as well as several of his fellow Musketeers.

The worst thing of all is the look of affection that develops on Athos’ face as he sees them kissing. D’Artagnan had hoped, after the night they’d spent together, that love would follow as a matter of course, but true to his word, Athos displays no deeper feelings for him than that of any soldier for a brother-in-arms.

On the long ride back to the garrison, d'Artagnan listens in as Porthos and Treville gang up on Athos, insisting that he stay well clear of Milady. Their arguments are persuasive, but Athos can be an obstinate man and today he’s not receptive to them in the slightest.

D’Artagnan had felt nothing but a sharp sting of pleasure at witnessing Milady’s unceremonious dismissal by the king. He’s surprised to discover that she was telling the truth back there, and had indeed returned with good intentions, to assist in rescuing them from Marmion, but Treville is not fooled by her actions. 

“She’s using you for her own gains, Athos,” he warns. “I hate to see you compromised by her.”

“I believe I was the one who told you not to trust her,” snaps Athos.

“Yet you seemed willing enough to work with her back at the fort,” says Porthos.

“She saved my life,” replies Athos wearily.

“She’s also done her best to rid you of it on several occasions,” growls Porthos.

“I remember you begging me not to execute her.” Athos glances sideways at his travelling companion. 

“For your sake not hers,” says Porthos, clearly exasperated by the conversation, as is d’Artagnan, despite the fact he’s not involved in it.

“It’s not what you do or say, Athos; it’s how you feel,” says Treville. “I can see you falling in love with that damn woman all over again.”

“Yes, I love her. I never stopped loving her.” Athos glances over his shoulder at Aramis, who is, as usual, lost in thought. “I’m also fully aware of her flaws. It’s not me you should be worried about.”

“Then who?” says Porthos. “You can’t mean d’Artagnan.”

“No, of course not.”

D’Artagnan’s heart warms when he catches an inkling of a smile on Athos’ face, but the next words come as a disappointment to his ears -- to his soul even.

“He and Constance are happily in love with each other. The husband is nothing but an inconvenience now that they have the queen’s blessing.”

“Then who are we supposed to be worried about?” asks Porthos.

Athos sighs, remaining stubbornly silent for the rest of the journey and ignoring any further questions from his comrades.

“You're a pain in the backside, d'you know that,” grumbles Porthos, frowning at Athos as they hand over their horses to the stable boy. “I’m heading to the tavern. Anyone care to join me?”

D’Artagnan can tell that Athos is itching for a night out, but as soon as Aramis agrees to accompany Porthos, he backs out of it. Things have not been right between the two men for months.

“I’ll go for a drink with you,” says d’Artagnan once the others have departed for the Wren, and is encouraged by Athos’ gentle smile and nod of acceptance.

“Shouldn’t you be with Constance tonight?” the older man asks.

“I’d rather be with you.” D’Artagnan lets his palm come to rest on Athos’ forearm, an inconspicuous gesture which would mean nothing to anyone watching, but is of significance to them.

Checking that there is no-one within earshot, Athos places a gloved hand over the top of d’Artagnan’s then leans in to speak intimately to him. “You were listening to my conversation earlier. You know where my affections lie.”

“And you already know all about mine,” replies d’Artagnan.

“That display with Constance seemed genuine enough to me,” says Athos. “She’s a good woman, and the last thing she needs is to be treated poorly by you.”

“Don’t lecture me, Athos,” says d’Artagnan, close enough now to kiss the man if he wanted to. He does want to, but chooses instead to smile at him. “Drink with me.”

The Bear Inn lies partway between the garrison and Athos’ lodgings. D’Artagnan wonders momentarily, with a twist of longing, whether Athos has brought him here with the sole purpose of taking him to bed afterwards. He knows, however, that it has been chosen, as a venue, purely for its convenient location. 

The cockfighting pit in the backroom is busy tonight, the roar of the gamblers a distraction to all but Athos, who finds a table and sets about his drinking with a steady resolve, barely acknowledging d’Artagnan’s presence.

“If you think you’re driving me away, then you’re wrong,” says d’Artagnan, pressing his mouth to Athos’ ear so that he can be heard above the din. “I’ve seen you drunk as much as I’ve seen you sober, and I love you equally both ways. You'll not be rid of me this easily.”

Athos pulls away and then smiles at him. “There is wine to be had back at my rooms,” he shouts. “At least there we can carry on a conversation.”

“You wish to talk?” yells d’Artagnan. “That’ll be a first.”

Athos laughs. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t.”

Tired of shouting, d’Artagnan leans in once again to make himself heard. “I’ll take both,” he says and for the briefest of moments he traces his tongue around the shell of Athos’ ear. “I’ll take anything you have to offer me.”

“Fuck!” says Athos, under his breath.

“Especially that,” shouts d’Artagnan. He has enough drink in his belly to be daring and is enjoying the game. Quick tongued and quick witted, he’s as cutting with his banter as Athos, but using it for the purpose of seduction is new to him.

Athos reaches under the table to cup him intimately. “Come, boy,” he says and his eyes are twinkling with amusement as d’Artagnan gasps and is on the verge of doing just that. “Let’s go.”

They’ve swallowed enough wine to be playful, but neither of them are anywhere close to being drunk, and as they stumble into Athos’ rooms, the door slamming noisily behind them, it’s desire rather than alcohol that fuels their clumsiness.

Once the candles are lit, they take ravenous mouthfuls of each other, tongues sliding together as they strip away item after item of clothing until both are naked, breath coming thick and fast as the excitement builds.

This bears no resemblance to their first time in bed. It has little to do with caretaking--is all about needy greedy sex--and as Athos explores every inch of skin with a hungry mouth, d’Artagnan pushes up against him and groans with pleasure at the feel of that beard scraping over his body. 

When it comes to d’Artagnan’s cock, Athos is equally voracious, taking him in and swallowing him deep. It’s his first time performing this act and he’s a little too eager which causes him to gag. That said, d’Artagnan has only ever been sucked off once before and, despite being a novice at it, Athos is a match for _her_ skills. Being on the receiving end must have taught him well.

Threading his fingers into Athos unruly hair, d’Artagnan moans out his approval, keeping the myriad endearments safely locked inside his head. Then, once it all becomes too overwhelming, he drags Athos upwards into his arms and kisses the sweetness from his lips.

“Fuck me,” he says brashly. “Fuck me the way you’d fuck Milady. Think of her.” He pauses. “If you can.” Tucking his hands behind his head he lets his legs slip apart, lying there spread and open, his cock leaking with arousal. He’ll be better than her. He’ll keep her at bay. 

“What if I don’t want to think of her?” smirks Athos, and leaning over, he reaches into a drawer and takes out a small ceramic pot.

“What's that?” asks d’Artagnan, watching with intrigue as Athos spreads the oily substance over his hand. 

“A healing balm from the apothecary. Just lanolin and medicinal herbs, but it should help.”

“Help with what?”

Athos looks fondly down at him. “You’ll be a tight fit. It’ll be uncomfortable if we fuck without an oil of some kind to ease the way.”

D’Artagnan blushes at his naïvety. “You’ve done this before?”

“No, but I’ve heard things. It’s surprising how often we’ve had to visit Madame Angel’s as part of an investigation.”

When Athos' eyes crinkle with amusement, d’Artagnan wonders whether he’s been investigating this particular act for personal reasons, but then as greased fingers push inside him, thinking becomes impossible and he throws himself into the moment, lifting his legs to aid the process.

“How's that for you?” asks Athos and that melodious voice cracks with desire.

Leaning back on his forearms, d’Artagnan watches Athos’ hand working between his thighs and moves with him. “It’s strange,” he says. “Good, I think. There. God, yes. Just there. That’s it.”

Already fighting the urge to come, d'Artagnan does the worst thing possible and drinks in the sight of Athos’ battle scarred body, wiry with muscle, the pale skin softened by candlelight. Pushing rhythmically against the thrust of fingers, he’s drawn to the sight of Athos’ cock, upright and thick, all glossy red with anticipation.

“I want you in me. I need you to fuck me,” he breathes and is shocked by how much he means it. To be a part of Athos has become everything to him.

“I'd love you if I could,” murmurs Athos as he rears over him.

D’Artagnan lifts his legs in welcome, then tucks them neatly around Athos’ body. “I know. You'll love me soon enough.”

Athos laughs at his cheek and d’Artagnan smiles up at the man, delighted by that quiet sound of amusement which has become music to his heart. “Come on then, Athos,” he urges. “Fuck me. You know you want to.”

“I want you too much,” says Athos. “That’s the damn problem.”

D’Artagnan understands. He’s on the brink himself. “Then kiss me.”

“You really think that’ll help?” smirks Athos, but he bends his head anyway and takes d’Artagnan’s mouth with slow swipes of tongue until d’Artagnan is humming and rocking against him.

“Now. Please,” he moans. “I can’t wait for you much longer.” 

Athos covers d'Artagnan, pressing the head of his cock into him and as their bodies join, d’Artagnan is taken apart, inch by rigid inch. There is undoubtedly pain, but so much pleasure to go along with it that he floats on sensation, every part of him reactive.

Squirming against Athos, trying to seek out the perfect position, d’Artagnan arches backwards, his head lolling over the edge of the bed as the curvature of his body focuses everything onto that hidden place inside him. “Yes,” he gasps as Athos grips his cock and works him with a rough hand. “God, yes, Athos.” The name extends into a blissful hiss as he jerks and spasms then comes in a flood.

Athos pushes him down into the palliasse, a hand to his shoulder, the other, sticky with sperm, planted wet on his belly. He’s heavy, forceful, but his eyes when he comes- Damn, his eyes are beautiful and d'Artagnan will never forget the look in them, which is--even if Athos doesn’t yet know it--about so much more than sex.

Still linked, they lie together, covered in each other, normal life a vague point on the horizon.

“If Milady was here would you fuck her?” asks d’Artagnan.

“Why torture yourself?” says Athos, slipping free then bracing himself on an elbow and brushing the hair away from d'Artagnan's eyes. “You wanted this, did you not?”

“I did indeed,” smiles d’Artagnan. “I’ll no doubt be begging you for more soon enough.”

“And I’ll no doubt succumb.” Athos kisses him softly on the mouth. “You, boy, are a sinful temptation.”

D’Artagnan falls asleep, replaying those words in his head. He’ll never tire of hearing them.

By morning they’re rank, but in the true spirit of men they revel in the raunch, eager to have each other once more before duty calls. The sex is a swift grind and thrust of bodies, but it’s enough, and after a wash and brush up, they set out together for the garrison.

Even reeking of sex, as they do, no one will think anything of it. They are both, to all intents and purposes, infatuated with their women and, as such, are above suspicion.

It's the best cover in the world, thinks d'Artagnan, overflowing with an afterglow of love for Athos as he musters with the others in the stable yard. They're preparing today to escort the king’s cousin, Princess Louise on her journey to be married, and it comes as no small relief to him that Constance cannot have a wedding in mind for them.

The trip to the border is a pleasant one. There’s no need to hurry. They camp out for several nights running, and d'Artagnan enjoys the peace of the countryside, harking back to that time spent in Pinon during which Athos was vulnerable and irresistible because of it. 

Now that he's thought of this, though, something ugly preys at the corner of his mind, and on the third evening, as they’re collecting wood for the fire, he’s compelled to ask a question.

"Have I forced you into this affair?"

Athos stops what he is doing and looks at him, a strange expression on his face. "No, of course not. Why ever would you think that?"

"I can be pushy," admits d'Artagnan. "I hope I didn't push too hard."

Athos looks around him and puts down his bundle of firewood. "Come here," he says, beckoning d'Artagnan closer.

D'Artagnan smiles and drops his own haul of branches, falling eagerly into Athos' arms. "Have we time?" he asks after they have kissed each other a thorough hello.

"Porthos is guarding the princess and Aramis is catching our supper." Athos laughs. "We have enough time to play a little."

"Good," says d'Artagnan kissing him again. "The fresh air is rousing. Having you so close to me has been torture."

Athos inclines his head. "I admit I've been tempted to sneak over and share your bedroll, these past few nights."

The words, combined with an elegant arch of eyebrow, send d'Artagnan into a spin. Pushing Athos back until he's leaning against the trunk of a tree, he falls to his knees, scrabbling at the fastenings of breeches and underclothes until he has Athos' cock in the warm grip of his hand. Burying his nose into the nest of hair, he breathes in deeply, excited by that heady muskiness.

Looking upwards, he holds his gaze with Athos and takes him, for the first time ever, into his mouth. There is nothing delicate about this. Athos' cock is salty with piss and sweat but still sweet with arousal. It's big enough to choke on and d'Artagnan swallows, gags and then swallows again, smiling around the shaft as it slides thick into the coil of his throat. 

He's never felt so debased, nor so aroused as he kneels for Athos and pleasures him, dry twigs crackling beneath him as he holds Athos' by the thighs and hauls him in deeper. The hand to his head is a warning of intent, but as Athos cradles him it feels more like a blessing. He comes in bittersweet bursts and d'Artagnan drinks him down then licks him clean, nuzzling into his groin and teasing at his softening cock until he squirms from the sensitivity and pushes him away. 

Bundling d'Artagnan over into the forest mulch, Athos dives between his legs, undoing his clothing and going down on him with exuberant delight. At first it feels wrong--d'Artagnan should be the one doing the honouring--but Athos enjoys him in every way. This is a favourite, it seems, from the way the man is licking, sucking, rolling them over and burying himself deep in d'Artagnan, doing incredible, filthy things to him with fingers and tongue. 

Before long, d'Artagnan is kneeling over Athos, a hand threaded into his hair as he fucks that mouth with abandon, saying all the endearments this time and mixing them up with some dirty talk. He comes with a shout of joy and imagines the sound echoing throughout the cathedral arches of the forest canopy.

They lie together for a while, stroking, touching, coming back down to earth and then, once they’ve recovered, they stand up and sort out their clothes, laughing at the state they’re in as they groom away the leaves and dirt then smooth messy hair.

Tidied up as much as possible, d'Artagnan rests both hands on Athos' shoulders, taking in the flush of sex and that full blown grin. "I'm glad no one else gets to see you this way," he says.

"I'll make sure I’m particularly surly tonight as cover." Athos smirks, and when he reaches for him the kisses feel like love.

D'Artagnan willingly submits until he remembers that this is not a holiday. Pulling away, he lands a playful punch to Athos' chest. "Get off me,” he says with a grin. “I know where that mouth has been."

They make their return to camp, with Athos averting disaster at the last second by remembering to collect the bundles of firewood. No questions are asked about their unscheduled interlude--both Porthos and Aramis have much on their minds--and after supper, d'Artagnan is happy to lie awake for a while and watch Athos sleep.

The final day of their journey starts out easily enough, Porthos and Aramis riding ahead of the carriage, with the other two dawdling along at the rear of the party. The sun may well be beating down on them, but d'Artagnan is suddenly aware of a conspicuous absence.

"You rarely wear your scarf now," he says. "Why is that?"

Athos looks him up and down, his eyes unusually bright with mischief, before leaning sideways to speak. "Because of that day you tore it off me."

He says no more and d'Artagnan frowns in confusion. Did he damage the material in some way? "But why?" he asks, full of curiosity.

Athos encourages his horse to move to the right and removes his hat, in order to be as close as possible.

"Your actions excited me. Wearing it is too much of a distraction."

D'Artagnan hardens to the implication of these words. "You wanted me back then," he says in an undertone, his head spinning from this new found knowledge.

"I did indeed." Athos nods, a half smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You needed to know."

"Thank you for telling me," says d'Artagnan, his face flushed, his voice little more than a croak of desire. "But perhaps now wasn't the best time." He's certain he'll be able to think of nothing else for the duration of their mission.

"You asked," says Athos with a shrug.

"It was an innocent question." D'Artagnan grins at him. “You could have lied and given me an innocent answer in return.”

“Lying does not suit me,” says Athos, raising an amused eyebrow.

The carriage pulls to a halt for a rest break and d'Artagnan is enmeshed in a fantasy of scarves and sex when their party is struck by an ambush. They’ve been unusually lax in their service today. In their right minds, they would never have agreed to stop at such a vulnerable point in the road, and all four of them are to blame for the mistake which could have been paid for in blue blood. 

The outcome, however, is good. After a short battle the attackers are dealt with efficiently and Princess Louise is grateful to d'Artagnan, who takes it upon himself to offer her his personal protection at all times whilst she is in France.

Being at the palace night and day is proving to be a nightmare. Not only does d'Artagnan have little time to spend with Athos, he is also prey to a pair of royal matchmakers, the queen and the princess teaming up to push Constance and him together as often as possible. He's never kissed the girl as much as he has done these past few days, not even when they were madly in love. Despite this, nothing is right between them, and though Constance has declared it her intention to leave Bonacieux, d'Artagnan is convinced that this has more to do with impressing Her Majesty than it does him. Neither of them seem keen to jump into bed, even though Constance has a convenient room in the palace.

After a second attempt on the princess’ life, d’Artagnan grows ever more unsettled. Something doesn’t add up--not an unusual occurrence with Rochefort at large--but he cannot work out what it is that’s bothering him. 

When he hears the terrible news that Treville has been shot, he’s petrified with worry. Relinquishing his duties temporarily to the Red Guard, he rides back to the garrison to discover that the situation is worse than he'd imagined. A musket ball is lodged in the captain's back. His lung has been injured and he’s coughing up blood. 

Athos is shaky, pallid with fear, and resorting to God is a sure sign of his distress. D'Artagnan would give anything to comfort him, but instead they stand silently by: statues watching on as Aramis, Constance and the surgeon Lemay fight to save Treville's life. Never has d'Artagnan felt so useless. Never has he seen Constance so alive.

Hours later, when the captain is resting comfortably with a good chance of survival, d'Artagnan steals Athos away to his room in the garrison. It's a confusing time. No one has yet discovered the truth of what’s going on and he knows he must return to the palace promptly, but he needs this moment of respite if he is to continue without collapse. His hopes for the comfort of some love making are dashed when Athos begins to speak.

"D'Artagnan," says the man earnestly. "Treville knows." He pauses as if the next words are a struggle to spit out. "He has asked me to leave you be from now on, and I have agreed that I will."

"No," insists d'Artagnan.

"Nothing good can come of this. It will endanger your life, ruin your career and spoil any chance you might have of happiness with Constance."

D'Artagnan is angry. "All the captain ever does is tell you how to live your life. I'm sorry he is injured, but this is no reason for him to interfere in our business. Why must you follow his words so blindly?"

"Because he is my commander and I respect him," says Athos stubbornly. "And because I know that he is right."

D'Artagnan is disturbed by a flash of inspiration. "You speak as if you have experience of such matters. Has this anything to do with you and the captain?"

Athos hangs his head. "I held out hope once, but Treville put an end to things before they grew out of hand." He looks up. "Now you can see how very much you are like me, only I’m afraid you do not have a good man to guide you as I did."

Indeed, d'Artagnan does see things more clearly now. Athos' unquestioning belief in Treville is evident to all, but his feelings run much deeper. "Nonsense," he says, resting a hand on Athos' shoulder. "I've told you this before. I have the man I want." A question needs to be asked. "Do you still love Treville?"

"Not in that way," Athos replies. "I'm not certain that I ever truly did."

But he would have grown to do so, rather than becoming that drunken husk of a man who was forever chasing ghosts. D'Artagnan knows that Treville chose badly, and he will not allow Athos to make the same mistake.

"I love you," he says, keeping his words simple. "I'll not give you up."

"You have no say in the matter," mutters Athos, but his actions are a contradiction to his words, and when d'Artagnan pushes roughly against him he doesn't fight to free himself. Nor does he avoid the kisses, opening his mouth to them and sucking greedily on d'Artagnan's tongue.

Fingers fumbling hurriedly with breeches and braies, they grasp and pull at cocks, their palms wet with spit as they kiss each other to a climax, shoved up against the wall and in full view of anyone who might happen to pass by the window.

"This is why it must end," says Athos afterwards, breathing heavily and still entangled in d'Artagnan's arms.

"But also the reason it never will," d'Artagnan answers back with a smile.

Dragging himself unwillingly away, Athos cleans them with a rag. "I'll not go against Treville's wishes." 

"You will," says d'Artagnan with certainty. "I know it for sure. I also know that one day you'll tell me you love me."

Athos smiles sadly at these words. "Part of me can't help but hope that you are right." Straightening his clothing, he leans in for a swift but determined kiss and then replaces his hat, adjusting it to the perfect angle. "Goodbye, d'Artagnan," he says in a solemn voice.

"I'll say farewell for now," replies d'Artagnan, and with a nod of assurance he watches Athos leave.


	3. Chapter 3

D'Artagnan wonders, with dismay, how he could have been so easily misled throughout this entire venture. The princess, whom he had thought he was protecting, was long since dead and her imposter has turned out to be a political assassin.

These kind of mix ups are relatively normal in the lives of the Musketeers, but the man lying on the chamber floor, blood soaked and dying, is not a soldier. He's a simple merchant, wronged by circumstance, and d'Artagnan is not only responsible now for his cuckolding, but also his death.

"I curse you, d'Artagnan," groans Bonacieux, the final gasps of air rattling in his throat. "I curse you with the knowledge that you will never find happiness. That anyone you love will come to the same miserable end as I have."

Blood pours from his wounds, and wracked with guilt, d'Artagnan tries to staunch the flow and force life back into the body of Jacques Bonacieux.

"Constance is your wife. Live, and I swear to you I'll never touch her again." Kneeling over Bonacieux, all d'Artagnan can think about is his father. The resurgence of loss and grief is too much to bear and he cries out his anguish, forehead resting against the corpse of a man he despised.

He returns to the palace courtyard, shattered by what has happened. "Bonacieux is dead," he says to the others in a dull voice. "I must tell Constance."

"Well at least _something_ good has come out of today," says Porthos, wincing as d'Artagnan stares at him through eyes that are sharp with distress.

"Relatively speaking," tempers Aramis with a consoling smile. "You and Constance deserve this."

The words are well meant, but not well chosen and d'Artagnan backs away from them as if they were a physical blow.

Athos catches him, turning him deftly in his arms. "D'Artagnan," he says in a low voice. "Take a minute. Calm yourself."

D'Artagnan wilts into him, feeding off his strength, but as he opens his eyes all he can see is Bonacieux's blood, smeared over the leather of Athos' doublet and in a horrifying moment of prescience, he pictures Athos' own death.

"Come on now," says Athos gently as he leads him over to the water butt. "We must wash. Constance won't want to see either of us in this state."

Meek, weak with exhaustion, d'Artagnan allows Athos to wipe away the stains that cover him. This reminds him even more of his father and the bile rises as a thought enters his head for the first time. Is Athos a replacement for what he has lost? If so, why does he want him so much?

"That's better," says Athos, attempting to draw d'Artagnan into an embrace. 

He resists: the curse, the lover and the father combining, in his head, into a scythe bearing figure of death. "I must go," he says.

" _We_ must go," corrects Aramis. "We’re brothers, are we not? All for one."

Constance will, without doubt, be at the garrison. As her name suggests, she has been ever present at Treville's bedside, along with Lemay, nursing the captain and tending to his needs.

D'Artagnan remains silent on their journey back to barracks, picking and choosing which words he should use. He'll not tell her of the curse, nor of his guilt. He may look clean now, but the blood on his hands will not wash off.

Constance is pleased to see them return, but her expression turns to one of confusion when, one by one, the Musketeers ignore her, leaving her alone with d'Artagnan.

"Bonacieux is dead," he says. There is no easy way to impart the news. "He was killed by the assassin.”

"But why?" says Constance. 

She doesn't fly into his arms, and nor does he attempt to hold her. Slowly though, they come together as if it is expected of them.

D'Artagnan decides against the truth. "He was in the way," he says. "She needed rid of him." He won't tell her that Bonacieux was killed so that they could be together.

"This means we can be married now," she says and they stare at each other blankly for a moment or two. "I must go. The captain needs his bandages changing."

D'Artagnan's not certain how long he's been staring into space when the hand on his shoulder jerks him to wakefulness. Looking around him in bewilderment, the light seems different. His life seems different.

"Do you need anything?" asks Athos, his voice mellow with care. Once again he attempts to embrace d'Artagnan and is kept at arms' length. "What’s troubling you so much?"

D'Artagnan looks at him and sees only blood. "Bonacieux's last words were a curse. He vowed that anyone I loved would come to the same end he did."

Athos lets out a bark of laughter. "The curse of a dying draper. I thought better of you than to believe such nonsense."

D'Artagnan tears up in embarrassment and anger. Desperate to hide this childish reaction, he turns to walk away, but Athos catches his arm and pulls him in close enough to whisper in his ear. Even now, the wine scented breath wafting over him is an excitement.

"Forgive me, d’Artagnan,” says Athos earnestly. “Sometimes I forget how young you are. Listen to me. Bonacieux isn't wrong. We’ll all meet death someday, but please don’t dwell on such things. Marry Constance. Have a family. Take this as a blessing rather than a curse."

Wanting to shake some sense into Athos, d'Artagnan is horrified that his next instinct is to kiss the man and haul him off to bed. Cursed or not, the last thing on his mind, after a day like today, should be a comfort fuck with his lover.

He escapes, charging through the streets of Paris, too fleet of foot for Athos to catch him. Too quick witted to hide in any of their usual drinking houses.

The first place he settles on turns out to be little more than a brothel. Attracting too much attention from the working girls, he learns a lesson from Athos, swallowing down his brandy and warding off the whores with an upraised hand and a dour expression. 

The next hostelry he chooses is a favourite haunt of the Red Guard. After downing another flagon of wine, he picks a fight to work off some of that pent up aggression. Dispatching three duellists in quick succession, he leaves the inn on wobbly legs, making for one of the waterside drinking houses that’s foul with the stench of the river and scuttling with rats. Huddling into a grubby corner, he lines up the bottles and proceeds to drink himself into a coma.

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”

D’Artagnan can hear a voice, comfortingly familiar in tone, but he can’t focus on the face that it belongs to. His legs give way; he's diving toward the compacted mud, and if it weren’t for strong arms he'd be lost.

“I- I’m-” he hears himself mumble and he's trying to tell the world that he will not have Athos die a martyr's death for his sake, but the words will not come. “I’ve lost everything,” he breathes and then he vomits until his insides ache. “I can’t bear-”

“Shush, d’Artagnan. Let me take you home. Leave the talk for tomorrow.”

He cannot see, cannot think, can’t hope to walk away from this. On his knees once more, he thinks he’s crying, but then is lifted into safety and happily everything goes black.

“Come on, boy. Wake up and drink this.”

When d’Artagnan opens his eyes, he is shocked to discover that he is sitting on Athos’ bed, slumped over with a bucket between his feet. He sits up slowly, his bones and muscles rebelling, and when he looks around he sees Athos sitting next to him, an arm around his shoulders, with Aramis crouched beside him.

“You need to vomit again,” says Aramis. “If you take all of this it will help with the poisoning.”

“I’ve been poisoned?” asks d’Artagnan blearily.

“You’ve poisoned yourself with wine, and frightened our mutual friend to death in the process.” Aramis’ voice is stern. 

The room is filled with sunlight and d’Artagnan wonders how many hours he has lost. “I’m sorry,” he says, looking properly for the first time at Athos who is careworn and shattered. “But you have to remember that I learned from the master.”

The attempt at humour doesn’t go down well.

“I thought you were going to die,” says Athos, enunciating each word with precision. “I didn’t know whether to send for Aramis or the priest.” 

“I’m sorry,” says d’Artagnan again, trying in vain to remember why he’d done such a foolish thing. His mind is a blank.

“Drink this and I’ll consider forgiving you,” says Athos with a faded smile.

D’Artagnan does as he’s told, swallowing the foul contents of the mug down in one, then shuddering with pain and embarrassment as the vomit erupts from him. When the sickness is finally over, he rolls into Athos’ bed, breathing in his scent and pulling the threadbare blanket over him.

“He’ll be fine now,” says Aramis in a reassuring voice. “Stay with him and get some sleep. You look shattered.” His words grow softer. “At least now you have some idea of the torment you put us through with frightening regularity.”

The disagreeable grumble is such a familiar sound that, despite his poor state of health, d’Artagnan manages a watery smile, and he's about to close his eyes when the room fills with a rose coloured blush.

“Is it sunrise?” he asks in confusion.

“Sunset,” explains Aramis. “You’ve kept Athos awake for too long. No wonder he’s more bad tempered than usual. Now go to sleep.”

D'Artagnan lets his eyes fall closed, listening to a sotto voce conversation between the two men. The occasional words he picks out don’t make much sense, but he can hear that they’re important to both of them. The door closes and he’s finally able to relax when Athos climbs in next to him.

“We’re cursed,” he remembers, the horrors of yesterday--the day before?--coming back to haunt him.

"Perhaps." Athos nuzzles into the back of his neck. “But not because of a damned tailor. We’re cursed for this,” he says softly, his arm looping around d’Artagnan.

Morning comes, bringing with it every nightmare imaginable. D’Artagnan tries to sit up and clutches his head. The movement makes his stomach roil and he sinks back down in misery.

“Are you going to be sick again?” says Athos, who is awake and dressed, sitting on the only chair in the room with a book balanced on his knee, long sighted by the look of things.

“No,” mutters d’Artagnan. “Though I feel the need to die. Why do you do this so often?”

Athos looks up and smiles. “To forget my past, I suppose, and perhaps as penance. I’ll try to do it less often now that I’ve seen things from another perspective.” He puts his book down and walks over to the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress and resting a palm on d’Artagnan’s forehead. “Not quite as clammy as before. Sit up and drink some water.”

“Do I have to?” asks d’Artagnan plaintively, groaning as he moves to take the flagon. He hates being ill, but conversely he likes to be taken care of -- especially by Athos, it seems.

“You do,” says Athos, watching with a hawk’s eyes as d’Artagnan finishes the contents of the mug.

“Now I’ve done as I’m told, will you lie with me?” He needs to feel the solid warmth of Athos against him. In such a short time, he has come to think of the man as his rock, and the idea of them not being lovers is an anathema to him. Treville with his orders and Bonacieux’s curse can go hang, as far as he’s concerned.

Athos looks away from him. “I’m here for you as your mentor, your friend and your brother. Nothing more.”

“I’m not asking for a fuck,” smiles d’Artagnan. “I need you next to me, is all.”

Athos raises a quizzical eyebrow at him. “You have more wiles than my wife. I have no idea whether to trust you.”

“You can trust me with your life,” says d’Artagnan fervently. “As I trust you with mine.” He watches Athos shuck off his boots and doublet, then holds out his arms to him. “We both have sleep to catch up on.”

The bed is a tight squeeze for two men, but d’Artagnan loves it this way, whether they're having a fuck or simply resting together. When Athos folds around him, he lets out a sigh of relief and his eyelids flutter closed in utter relaxation.

He has no idea how long he has been out this time when quiet words draw him back to a state of half wakefulness.

“I apologise,” comes Aramis’ voice. “I shouldn’t have barged into your rooms this way, but I wanted to find out if d’Artagnan was feeling better.”

“You’ve not seen anything amiss,” says Athos who doesn’t attempt to unwind his arms from around d’Artagnan.

“I’ve seen that you love him.”

Athos sighs. “I care for him, but I love my wife. He knows that. I’ve made no secret of it.”

“But he is your lover?”

“We’re not having this conversation, Aramis.”

“Maybe not, but you’ve kept a secret of mine well enough for the past year and, though it might not seem it at times, I’m eternally grateful for your discretion. I’ll gladly do the same for you and be an ear whenever you need it.”

“Whatever there may have been between d’Artagnan and I is now over.” Athos’ hold on him tightens. “Treville knows and has insisted I put a stop to it.”

“Treville has no right to interfere,” says Aramis and he sounds angry. “Even he must see that d’Artagnan is far better for you than Milady de Winter.”

“If I’m caught sleeping with him then we will be put to death publicly in the most shameful way, and the entire regiment will be brought into disrepute.”

“Then be discreet, man, but don't turn your back on a chance of happiness. They come along so rarely, especially in your case.”

“You follow this advice yourself, do you?”

“I would if I could, and you know that to be true.” Aramis lets out a deep sigh and d'Artagnan can hear the creak of the floorboards as he prepares to leave. “I must go. I have a mission of some sort planned with Porthos.”

“Are we needed?” asks Athos, his body tensing ready for action. 

“I honestly have no idea,” says Aramis. “Go along to the garrison, when d’Artagnan here is fit enough, and see what Treville has to say on the subject. Porthos is in a stinker of a mood, and I’m certain it has something to do with our erstwhile captain.”

When the door opens then closes, d’Artagnan relaxes back into Athos’ arms. He’s not ready to leave this tiny sanctuary of theirs just yet. His head still aches and his stomach feels as if it’s been filled with a barrelful of bad tempered eels.

“He’s gone. You can stop pretending to be asleep,” says Athos, squeezing him a little too firmly around the middle for comfort's sake.

“I wasn’t pretending,” says d’Artagnan. “I didn’t want to interrupt.” He turns, encouraging Athos onto his back then resting his head on his chest. “So now Aramis _and_ Treville know about us and the world hasn’t ended.”

“We’ve also been cursed and are still both alive.” Athos huffs with quiet laughter. "Perhaps it is a sign."

D’Artagnan leans on an elbow and looks down at him. “Thank you for looking after me.”

“You’ve done it for me often enough,” says Athos. “It goes some way to evening the score.” He then engages d’Artagnan in a serious look. “Joking and gratitude aside, I stand by my words.”

D’Artagnan closes the gap between them. He’s not fully fit, but Athos is irresistible to him, and he needs to convince the man that just because their relationship must be kept secret, doesn’t mean it’s too much trouble to bother with. “May I kiss you?” he asks.

“D’Artagnan!”

The word is a warning, but once again Athos doesn’t move away from him. Encouraged by this, d’Artagnan licks over his mouth, teasing at the lips until they part slowly for him. The kiss is a one sided affair, Athos remaining passive beneath him, and it should be off putting, but instead d’Artagnan is empowered. However hard he tries, Athos _cannot_ reject him.

“I love you,” d’Artagnan says as he moves from mouth to neck, biting and sucking until the man shivers beneath him.

“This is the very last time we do this,” says Athos, rolling them over, his hand splaying out against d’Artagnan’s bare stomach then sliding downwards under thin linen braies to clasp hold of his cock.

“The very last,” agrees d’Artagnan, fighting with the buttons of Athos’ breeches. He’ll relinquish the attentions of Athos’ hand if he must, though he will miss touching him.

Like all men, his cock has been a favourite toy since he was a small boy, but he never imagined that he’d be so enthralled by another man’s prick. He loves to hold Athos, to feel him grow and twitch against his skin. He loves to squeeze them together in his hands, to grind against him, wet and slippery until they both spend. He is under a spell.

Lying together in the bed, they stroke each other off, kissing with increasing urgency, and the build up of arousal pushes d’Artagnan’s headache away until it’s nothing but a flutter of pain in the background. They don’t hurry their play: Athos, because he’s determined their relationship will be over, and d’Artagnan for precisely the opposite reason. They are lovers, the same way they are friends -- to the end.

D’Artagnan will never get over the sight of Athos when he comes. He imagines most men to be red faced and bulging at the moment of climax, but Athos is wide-eyed and entrancingly pretty. From the reaction he gets, d’Artagnan thinks he must look as enticing to Athos. They are both inescapably swept up in each other.

“Are you well enough to come with me and speak to Treville?” says Athos when they are all done and washed clean of their mess.

“I need food first,” says d’Artagnan. He's shaky from an unpleasant combination of hangover and hunger.

“A good idea,” says Athos, with a nod. “Providing you stick to the stew and stay away from the brandy.”

“I will if you will,” smiles d’Artagnan.

The city is heaving with market traders and ordinary folk going about their business. He and Athos have walked the streets together a hundred times before, but today it feels different, as if the events of the past few days have forged him into a new man.

A simple dinner at the Wren feels more like a romantic liaison, and d’Artagnan makes the most of it. He’s never enjoyed a meal out with Constance, and his evenings with Athos have invariably been wrapped up in the search for oblivion. This is different: comfortable but exhilarating. They will always be more than friends.

The easy pleasures of the day diminish when Aramis seeks them out with troubling news of Porthos and his long lost father. 

"He’s staying at the chateau with Belgard," he says as they return to the garrison together. "It's understandable, but something there is far from right and we need to investigate with haste."

"But first we need to find out what Treville knows," says Athos with a determined look. "He's been stringing Porthos along for months now and I don’t like it at all."

The three Musketeers take the stairs to the captain's quarters. He is well enough to be up, pacing the room rather than lying in bed, but the extent of the bandaging shows the severity of his injury.

"About Porthos' father, sir," says Aramis.

Treville holds up a hand to silence him. "The Marquis de Belgard is a cruel man, but Porthos needs to draw his own conclusions on the matter. It's best he stays there to root out the truth."

"Why?" asks Aramis, leaning forwards in an aggressive stance.

"Something terrible was done to him and his mother when he was a child, and I’m not proud of the part I played in it, even though it was done in the name of brotherhood." Treville steeples his fingers. “I was in the wrong, but his father’s behaviour was much worse.”

"Then you should have told Porthos, before sending him off armed with only half the facts," says Athos. "That man admires and respects you above all others. He deserves better." Athos steps in closer and for one dreadful moment d'Artagnan thinks he is going to hit the captain. Instead he stares him down. "When we were in Pinon you all accused me of cowardice and you were right to do so. This, however, is much worse."

"If you'll not help him, then we will," says Aramis.

“He needs to find out for himself,” repeats Treville.

D'Artagnan knows when to keep quiet. He will not involve himself in Inseparables business. They’re as tightly knit as three men can be, and the captain is risking a lot going against one of them.

"See what the daughter and her husband are up to," says Treville. "I'll wager fifty livres that Belgard will be in charge of whatever is going on there."

All three soldiers would prefer to be helping Porthos directly and bringing him safely back to the fold, but they also know that the welfare of the girls is a priority. Creeping around Eleanor Levesque is an unpleasant task, but it secures them an invitation to the party. 

D'Artagnan and Athos attend the soirée, uncertain of what it involves, and when the auction of virgins begins, d'Artagnan is in awe of Athos' cold fury and deft handling of the situation. He is, however, amused more than impressed when the man is consequently felled by Mme Levesque's tea tray. Afterwards, he helps him to his feet with a stealthy kiss to the back of his head, witnessed only by Aramis who looks upon them both with an affectionate smile.

"Get the girls away from here," says d'Artagnan, ushering them out and then he returns to press the tip of his sword to Mme Levesque's throat. "I don't believe in violence against women, but I could make an exception in your case."

"Don't, d'Artagnan," says a voice from behind him. Athos rests his hand against the small of d'Artagnan's back. "It will weigh heavy on you for the remainder of your days. I know this from experience. Besides which, we have more urgent matters to attend to."

With all the girls now safely returned to the bosom of their families, the three men arrive back at the garrison to some unpleasant news.

"You let Porthos walk away from the regiment?" cries Aramis in disgust as he snatches up his friend's pauldron from the captain's desk.

"He believed what Belgard told him." Treville sinks into a chair. "It was the truth, I suppose. A twisted version of it anyhow. De Foix and I kidnapped Porthos and his mother and left them in the Court of Miracles, but we honestly thought we were doing the right thing. Belgard would have killed them otherwise. I regretted my actions immediately and tried to find them, but they had vanished." He hangs his head. "Porthos needs your loyalty now more than ever."

"No," says Athos. "Porthos needs _your_ loyalty. Ours has never been in question." He turns to his companions. "Wait for me outside. The captain and I have some matters to discuss."

Aramis and d'Artagnan do as they’re bid, closing the door behind them, but the conversation inside carries on at an audible level and it seems Athos has no wish to hide anything from them.

"You were involved with Belgard and de Foix," he says in an inquisitor's voice. "This is why you pushed me away. Why you insist on there being a distance between d'Artagnan and myself."

"Nothing good can come of such a relationship," says Treville. “You know that.”

D'Artagnan has heard similar words from Athos' mouth and it’s now clear from where they originate. He and Aramis exchange a look.

"Do not foist the consequences of your poor judgement onto me," says Athos. "I trusted you implicitly, but now I'm not so sure."

" _Athos_ ," says Treville. "I’m thinking only of your welfare."

"Try thinking of Porthos’ welfare for a change," says Athos. "Think about how you'll make amends when we bring him back." With that, he slams out of the captain's quarters and is visibly shaking with anger when he joins the others on the balcony.

"That head wound has bled all over your shirt," says Aramis. "Change it for a clean one. D'Artagnan, go with him and see to the cut. I'll ready the horses and equipment for our journey."

Grateful beyond belief for Aramis' thoughtfulness, the two men escape to Athos' quarters, and if closing the shutters at this time of day invites suspicion then neither of them could give a damn. The heavy bolt on the door is drawn, clothes are shed and they fall naked onto the rumpled bed.

"You have something we can use?," gasps d'Artagnan as Athos kisses a path over his chest, from nipple to nipple.

"There's gun oil in the drawer," Athos mutters, not looking up from from his task, intent on driving d'Artagnan to distraction.

D'Artagnan reaches for the bottle, spilling some into his cupped hand and slicking Athos' fingers. The draw of slippery skin is arousing enough in itself, and as d'Artagnan slides palm against palm, he pulses with excitement.

Pulling away a little, Athos delves into him, working him open and watching the expression on his face as he does so. Once d’Artagnan is loose and begging to be filled, Athos rolls over into a supine position, lifting him and seating him on his erect cock.

"That's my boy," he murmurs as d'Artagnan raises and lowers himself, biting at his lip to suppress the sounds of delight.

It is a wonder to fuck Athos this way. To be in control and yet surrender every part of himself, accepting the buck and thrust of that cock as it pushes him to his limits. To tumble headlong into climax as Athos encloses him in the tunnel of his fist, pulling him off until he is coming in thick streaks over pale skin, filled to the brim with heat and love.

"We'll do it again like that," says d'Artagnan as they wash hurriedly in the bucket of cold water.

"We will, and soon," promises Athos as he leans in close to take d'Artagnan's mouth in a kiss that's bruising and tender, all at the same time. "But now we must go."

Aramis is waiting at the stables for them and the look of contentment on his face when he sees them so comfortable with each other fills d’Artagnan with warmth.

“I hope this means there'll be no more nonsense from you two,” says Aramis.

Athos tilts his head and raises an eyebrow. “Now is hardly the time for chit chat,” he says. “We have a friend who may be in need of our help.”

“We do,” says Aramis, mounting his horse. “But it would take just a second to reassure me.”

“I assure you that all is well,” says Athos, slipping his foot in the stirrup and swinging into the saddle. “Very well indeed,” he adds with a full smile.

D’Artagnan follows suit and mounts up, the internal ache a reminder of the other saddle he has recently vacated, and just the thought of their sex is so entrancing that he is struck dumb by it.

“Is the captain fit enough to ride?” says Athos, as they are about to leave the garrison.

“He is,” says Aramis. “He’s a strong man and is healing well.”

“Then I believe he should come with us,” says Athos, dismounting. “It can be the start of his atonement. Tell Jacques to tack up his horse. I’ll go fetch him.”

“He’s not letting him off the hook then,” says d’Artagnan, wondering whether Athos will eventually become their new commander. He has it in him to be a great leader.

“I doubt whether Treville will want to be let off easily. He’s good man who’s guilty of making some bad decisions,” says Aramis. “Who amongst us can not admit to that?”

D’Artagnan shrugs and nods, watching as Athos and Treville approach the stables, deep in conversation. It seems, from the look on his face, that the captain is more than eager to accompany them. Perhaps he was waiting for the invitation, needing to know that he was still welcome as part of the pack.

They ride their horses into a lather of sweat, and when they arrive at Chateau de Belgard there is already a battle underway with Porthos in the midst of it. The nick of time will never be a more appropriate phrase. Shots are exchanged, the Musketeers leap into the fray to help their friend, and as d’Artagnan aims his pistol, he thinks about that stolen half hour he and Athos spent in bed earlier and is relieved that nothing bad has come of it.

When Porthos takes off after Belgard, Treville following close at his heels, the rest of them clean up the mess. Levesque is dead and the only one who will mourn his loss is Eleanor. Men scarper in all directions. Women mill about endlessly, whilst Aramis, Athos and d’Artagnan wait impatiently for the return of their comrade, hoping that he will still want to be a Musketeer. The idea of a life without him would be unthinkable.

Porthos _does_ choose them and, despite the sorry truths that have been revealed to him, is positively beaming when Aramis straps his pauldron back in place. He is a gentle giant with a heart too big to fit inside that huge barrel chest.

“What about your inheritance?” asks Athos.

“I want nothing to do with the place,” says Porthos vehemently and then he grins at Athos. “But at least mine’s bigger than yours.”

“His is plenty big enough for me,” smirks d’Artagnan, laughing at the expression that develops on Porthos’ face as he extrapolates meaning from the words.

“If we ever have to share a room again I don’t want to be hearing any suspicious noises from you two,” says Porthos and then he reaches an arm around both of them and squeezes. “Watch your backs, for God’s sake.”

The journey home to the garrison is _almost_ light hearted: lighter, in collective spirits, than they’ve been for a while, at least. D’Artagnan knows there’s still something awry with Aramis, and that Athos is the only one privy to the information. He hopes that whatever it is will be fixed soon, but for now he’s happy that Porthos and Treville are rebuilding their relationship, discussing the past on a redemptive road back to Paris. 

After handing tired horses over to the stable lads, they sit around the benches eating a meal of roast meats and bread. When the jug of wine is empty they take their leave, Treville up to his quarters, Aramis and Porthos to the gaming tables and Athos and d'Artagnan to that ramshackle lodging house in Rue Ferou.

“You’re not angry with me?” d’Artagnan asks when they are finally home and safe.

“Why would I be?” asks Athos, pouring them a flagon of wine each.

“Because I told Porthos about us,” says d’Artagnan.

Athos shakes his head. “It’s only right he knows we’re together.”

“And when you say together?” says d'Artagnan, stepping in closer to unfasten the buttons of Athos’ doublet, his eyes straying to the scarf that is looped over the backrest of the chair.

“I mean simply that.” Athos smiles up at him. “Stop pushing, boy.”

“But I _am_ pushy,” says d’Artagnan, proving his point by shoving Athos towards the bed. “I’ve already warned you of this. It’s in my nature, and if you love me then you’ll put up with it.”

“A small price to pay,” smirks Athos, twisting d’Artagnan around in a sudden move until he drops helpless onto the bed.

To d’Artagnan this sounds like an admission and he takes it as such, attaching himself to Athos’ mouth and kissing him with such force that it leaves them both breathless.

They’re falling into this, quickly and deeply, and only now does d’Artagnan remember that Constance and Milady are still a part of their story.


	4. Chapter 4

With Athos and the others on an intercept mission in le Havre, and d'Artagnan busy at the palace, the two men have had no time to be together since the business with Belgard. It's been frustrating, but Athos has finally sent word of their imminent return, via a messenger, and since receiving the news, d'Artagnan has been waiting at the boarding house in Rue Ferou, pacing the floor and sipping from a flagon of claret. 

The more wine he drinks, the more enticing that scarf becomes, and before long he's unable to resist, wrapping it around his hand, as he had done that day in the forest, then pressing it to his nose to breathe in Athos' musk. Tweaking open the buttons of his breeches, he rubs it against his cock to scent it with himself and is helplessly excited by this act: a mare coming into her first season, ready to be mounted by the stallion.

Heavy bootsteps on the tread of the stairs tell of Athos' return and quivering with arousal, trying to hide the state he is in, d'Artagnan fastens his breeches and winds the scarf around his neck.

Striding into the room and slamming the door behind him, Athos smiles with honest delight at seeing d'Artagnan. "I thought you'd be waiting for me at the garrison as arranged."

"Couldn't," says d'Artagnan and he crosses the room and launches himself at Athos, kissing his neck and face and drinking in both sight and smell of him.

"At least let me relieve myself and have a wash," laughs Athos. "It's been a tiresome few days and a long journey home."

"Piss by all means, but don't you dare bathe," says d'Artagnan, rubbing up against the older man.

Athos huffs with laughter. "Down, boy. You're in far more of a lather than my horse was when I left her back at the stables." Hitching in a sudden breath, he fingers the scarf around d'Artagnan's neck. "Why are you wearing this?" 

"You know why," murmurs d'Artagnan. His lips are against Athos' mouth and he licks possessively into him.

"Christ almighty." Athos' voice is hoarse with desire. "Undress me and then yourself, but leave the scarf on."

D'Artagnan does as he's bid, piling Athos' clothes neatly on the chair, then ridding himself of his own and watching as Athos stands naked at the window, forcing out a flow of piss from his semi-erect prick. He's unashamedly animal and when he turns around d'Artagnan stumbles forward, falling to his knees and drawing in great breaths of him before gulping down mouthfuls of hardening cock.

"You're a joy to come home to," says Athos, legs spread wide as he rocks into d'Artagnan's greedy mouth. "My cock hungry boy." Ripping away the scarf, he holds it to his nose. "It smells of you."

"It smells of us," groans d'Artagnan, lying back on the dusty floorboards, legs raised and spread.

Wetting his fingers, Athos opens d'Artagnan up and rears over him, the scarf a fetishistic softness between them. Having a fuck will be tight this way without oil to ease the passage, and d'Artagnan worries that it might cause him injury, but Athos is slick with his own fluid and so _careful_ with him, tenderness tempering his passion. This excites him all the more; they fuck this way for a long time, and when Athos finally pulls out, heaving him over onto all fours and re-entering him with slow determination, d'Artagnan rubs that scarf between finger and thumb and is ready to come without a single touch.

"Not yet," instructs Athos, reaching around to grip him by the base of his cock and hold back the surge. 

Held in restraint like this, d'Artagnan pushes against Athos, head resting on his shoulder as he enjoys the shudder and warmth, behind and inside him.

"Sit on the bed," says Athos when he is done, and d'Artagnan scrambles to oblige, his cock an aching column of need, aching even more when Athos kneels at his feet. "Put the scarf on me," the man continues, looking up at d'Artagnan, his green eyes sinful and sweet.

It's about ritual more than ownership, thinks d'Artagnan as he ties the material around Athos' neck, but the fun they can have with this is limitless. Awash with ideas of binding, gagging, blindfolding, he trembles at Athos' next words.

"Use me."

Standing, he holds Athos by that tight loop of scarf, guiding mouth to cock and pushing deep into the constriction of his throat. After no more than a dozen hard thrusts he's there, heaving into Athos and then, when he's spent, hauling him upwards and licking the come from his mouth.

"All I could think of, on the ride home, was bed," smirks Athos, falling back onto the mattress and taking d'Artagnan with him. "Though I had sleep in mind, rather than this."

"Sleep now," says d'Artagnan, kissing him on the lips, a finger hooked into that twist of material. He's unable to keep his hands off it, can feel it securing them together. "How is Porthos?" he asks to distract him from overthinking their relationship.

Athos' eyes are already closing. "Coping well, as Porthos always does."

"And Aramis?"

"You'll find out about him soon enough." Athos curls into his side. "If it were my secret to tell then you'd know already."

"I know," says d'Artagnan. "I love you."

All he receives in response is a gentle snore, but the sound is sweet enough to make him smile in contentment.

The next day begins in the most pleasant of ways: a lazy fuck, a shared bath and a walk through the city to the gardens where they break their fast on fresh bread and mugs of ale. 

To the rest of the world they must look like nothing more than a pair of ordinary soldiers, thinks d'Artagnan as he brushes an open palm against Athos' thigh, _their_ secret a thing of warmth between them.

Mustering at the garrison, all plans for a morning's training are abandoned when they are called, as a foursome, to attend the palace with haste.

The news from there is horrifying. When Constance tells them of Rochefort's attack on the queen, d'Artagnan feels sick. It doesn't matter that she successfully fought him off, the fact that she had to go through such a thing is unthinkable. She's a brave and strong woman. The Comte de Rochefort's madness has never been up for debate, but the true extent of it is now clear.

"Are _you_ all right?" says d'Artagnan, pulling Constance to one side.

She deflates, leaning into him, and he wraps an arm tightly around her as support.

"I'm exhausted and I'm frightened, but I must hold it together for the sake of the queen." She looks up, a weary smile on her face. "Thank you, d'Artagnan."

Filled with unexpected emotion, d'Artagnan understands, for the first time ever, that it is possible to be in love with two people at once.

The anger inside the royal chambers is palpable. The Musketeers escort the queen through the corridors of the palace, fighting their way past an entire regiment of Red Guard to gain audience with the king, but it's a pointless task. Rochefort tells lies, lies and more lies, however he has the trust of His Majesty and therefore his ear.

On the way back to the garrison, Athos and Aramis walk a few steps behind the others, heads together as they’re embroiled in serious conversation.

Having reached and then exceeded his tolerance limits, Porthos wheels around to confront his two friends. "What the bloody hell is going on?" he demands. "D'Artagnan and I are sick of being left in the dark."

Athos and Aramis exchange a look.

"You have no choice but to tell them," advises Athos.

"I agree, but not here," says Aramis, staring at the ooze of slurry in the street. "The captain needs to know too."

They walk back to the barracks in silence, and as they ascend the staircase, d'Artagnan glances at Athos.

"This is bad, isn't it?" he says in a low voice.

Athos cocks his head thoughtfully to one side and then nods.

"And I can tell, from your air of despondency, that there's no easy way out of it," continues d'Artagnan. 

Athos shrugs. "We could always run away to sea," he says with amused eyes and an upward tug of his lips.

The news turns out to be far worse than anything d'Artagnan could have predicted. To sleep with the Queen of France is the behaviour of an erratic, maladjusted fool and he’d thought more of his friend. 

"Aramis," he groans in despair.

Treville levels the blame unfairly at Athos. "You should have stopped this."

"Had I known in advance then I would have shot him, but what's done is done." Athos stares intently at Aramis. "There is more."

"The dauphin is my son," says Aramis, looking shifty, embarrassed at having to confess the full extent of his sins.

Treville is left speechless, but not for long. "Aramis, you're talking about the future king of France. How could you be so irresponsible?"

Porthos doesn't know whether to punch his friend or hug him. He opts for the latter, but then says: “I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell me.”

"I had to protect her reputation," says Aramis.

D'Artagnan is furious. "I’m sure you could have done that better by _not_ sleeping with her."

"This never happened, Aramis," says Treville. "Do you understand me?"

"And still more," says Athos in that laconic but perfectly enunciated drawl of his. "Rochefort knows everything."

Pacing like a caged beast, Treville picks up Aramis' hat and throws it across the room. "Then we're lost," he said. "There is nothing that can be done to save you and the queen from this mess."

"Well, there may be something," says Athos cautiously.

Something inevitably turns out to be Milady de Winter. D'Artagnan and Treville accompany Athos when he meets with his wife in the tavern. She's none too pleased to see that he has his guard dogs with him, but she co-operates, and her news that Rochefort is a Spanish spy comes as both a shock and a relief. When she tells them, with a glint of pride, that she was the one who assassinated the ambassador Perales, d'Artagnan is horrified, and yet Athos hardly bats an an eyelid. He knows Milady for what she is, warts and all, and despite _everything_ he carries on loving her. It’s infuriating.

"But we have no proof of this," says d’Artagnan in a temper. "We have no evidence to show the king."

"I can take you to where Rochefort keeps his personal correspondence," says Milady. "We may find something of use there."

"But first we must get the queen to a place of safety," says Treville. "Rochefort is rejected, unhinged and working for Spain. Her Majesty may well be in danger."

A stealth assault on the palace is carried out within hours. There's no denying the connection that exists between Athos and Milady, and as they sneak their way in, dispatching guards as they go, Porthos warns them off each other with an angry glare and a rumble of disapproval.

Once the queen is safely in Musketeer hands, they come up with a plan to hide out at that hilltop convent in the countryside. An ironic location, considering it was the site of Aramis’ treason, but the only one available to them at such short notice. 

It worries d'Artagnan having to leave Constance at the mercy of Rochefort, but it physically hurts him to part company with Athos. There is no choice in the matter, however, as the queen's safety is of paramount importance, and Milady refuses to trust anyone but her husband.

The other Musketeers thoughtfully engineer a quiet moment for Athos and d’Artagnan to say their goodbyes. The stables are deserted, the loose box utterly private, and with Porthos guarding the outside of the block the two men feel safe enough to act openly with each other.

“Don’t trust Milady,” says d’Artagnan.

“I’ll never trust her again,” says Athos.

But you’ll never stop loving her, thinks d’Artagnan.

They kiss for a second or two, tongues swiping together, and d’Artagnan forces himself away before it all becomes too much. He hides from the world in Athos’ neck, nose buried in that scarf, and the scent of their sex embedded into the material is as overwhelming as the kiss. Footsteps on the cobbles, combined with a gruff clearing of the throat, remind d’Artagnan that this is neither the time nor the place to have such thoughts and he takes an unwilling pace back.

“The queen is ready to leave, gentlemen,” says Porthos from the other side of the arched wooden doors.

“Go.” Athos kisses d’Artagnan once more for luck. “I’ll meet you at the convent as soon as I’ve found the proof we need,” he says. “It won’t take long.”

“It had better not,” smiles d’Artagnan. “I’ll see you soon.”

If the circumstances hadn’t been so difficult and atmosphere so awkward, then this could have been another enjoyable trip out of the city. Riding across the fields, d’Artagnan can’t help but remember his last time in the countryside, when they’d been charged with escorting the imposter princess to Paris. He thinks of Athos and, strangely enough, it isn’t their alfresco sex that comes to mind, but instead, his first glimpse of that roguish smile as they’d brushed away the leaves from each other’s clothes. He misses Athos’ presence so much it feels like a sudden punch to the guts, and this gives him some sympathy for Aramis who can never hope to be with his love, or act as a father to his child.

“Athos will be fine,” says Treville, who’s riding alongside him and Porthos.

D’Artagnan is more than a little embarrassed that he’s been caught out, but he smiles at the captain all the same. “I know. I worry too much about him, as I do about Constance.”

“She’ll be fine too,” says Treville. “She’s a brave lass: clever and resourceful.” He sighs and glares without subtlety at Aramis’ back. “I wish this mess could be easily undone.”

“He couldn’t help it, sir,” says Porthos. “It’s how Aramis is. He loves the queen and that's that.” He lowers his voice. “But I _have_ told him that the only thing he can do is walk away.”

“And will he?” asks Treville.

“I dunno,” says Porthos. “The other thing about Aramis is that he’s really loyal.”

The nuns are more than happy to receive them. The queen and Aramis are both saddened to hear of the death of the mother superior and d’Artagnan knows that Athos will also be upset by the news. He had a lot of respect for that lady and spoke of her often with great fondness.

Seeing the two lovers so delighted to be in each other's company again gives everyone, even the captain, a little more sympathy for their plight, and they’re left alone, for a short while, in the queen’s chamber to spend the time as they see fit. Her Majesty hopefully has the sense not to repeat her mistakes, even if Aramis does not.

The days pass by slowly as they wait for Athos’ arrival, and with nothing but illuminated bible texts to read, Porthos and d’Artagnan spend the next morning training with swords and fists on the castellated rooftop of the convent as they watch out for sign of anyone approaching.

“He’s here,” says d’Artagnan and is overjoyed to see that Athos is on his own. He’d been fully expecting Milady to accompany him.

Athos arrives with terrible news of the king’s poisoning. The queen is grief stricken and insists on an immediate return to her husband’s side. With a plan put into action and a letter to the Spanish spymaster, forged by Sister Teresa, ready to be delivered by Porthos at first light, they settle down for a second night at the convent. Complaining of tiredness, Athos slips away to be on his own and d’Artagnan thinks nothing of it. He will always be a solitary man and have need of his own company above all others.

Up until now their relationship has been perfect-- _they_ have been perfect--so when, much later, Athos comes to visit him, stumbling and incoherent with drink, d’Artagnan's bemused but forgiving. 

"Was there really enough brandy in a nunnery to get yourself into this state?" he laughs, bolting the cell door and helping Athos out of his clothes.

Amusement aside, this is hardly the time for such drunkenness. They may be safe for now, holed up inside the fortress like walls of the hilltop convent, but they have a plan to ride for Paris at dawn, and the mission they’re about to embark on will put all their lives at risk. Nevertheless, d'Artagnan trusts that by morning Athos will be clear headed and fit for service. He’s a loyal soldier, a good man and an honourable friend. D'Artagnan's faith in human nature _has_ been tested recently, but not by his lover.

It's when he’s stripping Athos of his stained shirt, he gets the first indication that something is wrong. It's nothing more than a whiff of something fragrant hidden beneath the stench of brandy, but the gouges on Athos' body tell a sickening story of fierce passion and a fire that will not extinguish itself.

"You fucked her," says d'Artagnan in disbelief. “You fucked Milady.”

Athos nods once and then hangs his head in shame. "I love her. I hate what she is, but, God help me, I can’t stop loving her." He looks up. "I’ve never lied to you."

D'Artagnan is disgusted for so many reasons. "She admitted to killing Perales,” he spits. “That woman has no sense of shame or remorse. She has no morals." He remembers Athos shaking his head at the news as if his wife was nothing more than a badly behaved child. "She's a monster and her murders excite you." Even now, d'Artagnan can see Athos' cock thicken. Even worse, he can feel his own fill in response.

"We’re each one of us killers, d’Artagnan," says Athos slowly. "Stop trying to dress it up nicely."

The truth is uncomfortable and messy. Constance is in danger. The king may already be dead. Aramis is more than likely bedding the queen and, perversely, all d'Artagnan can think about is fucking his drunken whore of a lover.

"Tell me about the sex," he says through gritted teeth as he strips away the remainder of Athos’ clothing.

"D'Artagnan, you don't want to know this." Athos is miraculously sober all of a sudden. He has a habit of doing that. “Please. Enough.”

"Tell me." D'Artagnan undresses and straddles Athos’ body, leaning forward and tracing one of the more prominent scratches with the tip of his tongue. "If she excites you so much then describe it to me. Explain why she’s so irresistible."

"Why do you enjoy torturing yourself so much over her?" says Athos.

"Tell me,” says d’Artagnan. “Do it," he breathes and this elicits a gasp of excitement in response, which is repeated when he binds Athos' wrists with the scarf from about his neck.

"Catherine was going to hang her," says Athos. "But this time I saved her from the noose. I had her in my arms.”

“And it turned you on?” says d’Artagnan.

"No." Athos looks away. “She told me that I was wrong. That my brother had tried to rape her and she was only defending herself. I believed her.”

"She played you for a fool,” says d’Artagnan and he sucks bruising kisses onto Athos’ throat.

“I _believe_ her,” says Athos in a low voice.

They’re hard against each, wet from want, but this does nothing to dispel the build up of bitterness. “Where were you when you fucked her?” asks d’Artagnan and he’s grinding, shimmying against Athos, jostling against him for attention.

"Does it matter?" Athos says, his voice only slightly slurred now.

"I want to know." For some peculiar reason it's important to d’Artagnan.

“We were hiding in Rochefort’s rooms,” says Athos. “He knew someone had been there. I was watching him, but all the time I could smell her perfume. I could smell her.” Athos heaves in an excited breath. “The moment he left we kissed. I picked her up and put her on Rochefort’s desk then I lifted her skirts and had her like that. There was a commotion outside the chamber, someone screaming that the king had been poisoned, chaos going on all around us, and we fucked right through it. Is that enough detail for you?”

D’Artagnan stretches himself open, slicks them both up with lamp oil and impales himself on Athos’ cock. “It doesn’t explain the scratches,” he breathes.

“Once wasn’t enough.” Athos groans as d'Artagnan begins to ride him, slow and steady in contrast to his thoughts. “We stripped off as much as we could. I licked the come out of her cunt until she came again, and then I fucked her on all fours in Rochefort’s bed. That’s it. That’s all of it. Are you happy now?”

D’Artagnan knows that he has lost. Their sex is always beautifully dirty. They’ll have each other whenever and wherever they can, bound, gagged and desperate. He _is_ a killer, as Athos says, but he’s an honourable soldier not a vicious assassin and he’ll never be dangerous enough to compete with Milady de Winter.

He puts all his effort into this fuck. It’s the performance of his life, and when he can see that Athos is on the verge, he strokes himself off until he comes in pent up waves over that newly scarred chest. 

"Do you love me at all?" he asks when they are done.

"I love this," says Athos earnestly. "I love what we do together. What we have together."

"But do you love _me_?"

Athos rests a gentle palm against d’Artagnan’s cheek. "There’s no room inside me. You must understand that by now."

The undisturbed sleep that follows is testament to Athos' ability to shut off his emotions, or perhaps the soporific power of wine. In contrast, d'Artagnan lies awake, his head pillowed on Athos' chest in his usual place of comfort. Today, it doesn't feel comforting in the slightest.

He gets up at the first grey hint of dawn. Porthos, always the early bird, is in the convent stable block, readying his horse and planning out his route to Spain.

"What will you do when Vargas discovers he's been tricked?" asks d'Artagnan.

"I'll fight and I'll win."

Porthos aims that wondrous grin his way and, not for the first time, d'Artagnan suspects he's in the presence of the bravest man alive.

"What's bothering you, d'Artagnan?" the big man asks as he takes the nosebag from his horse's neck. "You still trying to untangle the mess in Athos' head?"

D'Artagnan sighs. "I've come to the conclusion that Milady's too big a knot to unravel." Just saying it helps clarify things.

"He's loved her for a long time," says Porthos. "And he's as complicated as Aramis." In that split second, d'Artagnan knows that he's talking to someone who understands him better than most. "What does he say you should do?"

"Marry Constance and be happy," replies d'Artagnan.

"And what do you think of that plan?"

D'Artagnan doesn't say anything, choosing instead to pat Porthos on the back as an answer, but he mulls it over deeply as he tacks up the horses.

With the group about to split, the goodbyes are all the more poignant now that d'Artagnan is aware of Porthos' feelings for Aramis. He wonders how different things would be today if those two were a couple, and Captain Treville hadn't rejected Athos as a lover years ago.

Breakfast is a hurried, silent affair and soon they are on their way to Paris. Athos is gruff with hangover, but an efficient soldier as always, the only one of them to point out that they should wait for confirmation before charging, at full pelt, into the palace. Unfortunately, the queen has faith in Marguerite and disagrees with him.

The trap is set, they are caught in it like rats, and the bottom then falls out of d'Artagnan's world when Rochefort relays, with more than a hint of insanity, that Constance is a traitor and will be beheaded at dawn. Accused of treason, Aramis is dragged off to the dungeons, an axe hanging over his head, and the remaining Musketeers are thrown out of the royal chambers.

"Go to Constance whilst you still can," says Athos urgently and d'Artagnan does as he's told, wondering if his affair with the man has been nothing more than a figment of his imagination.

Lying prone on the courtyard cobbles, he reaches for Constance's hand through the bars. She's small and frightened and his heart goes out to her. "I love you," he says and means it. "I'll get you out of here."

"I love you too, d'Artagnan," she cries. "I was wrong to make us wait."

He’s dragged away and beaten by the Red Guard, not enough to be injured, but enough to have Athos pull him to one side in concern when he sees him afterwards.

“You’re hurt.”

“Nothing’s broken. You fret too much,” says d'Artagnan in a mirror of their first night together at that small coaching inn. It seems a lifetime ago, and this time it doesn’t lead to lovemaking, naïve or otherwise.

Within a day, Constance has been rescued, Vargas is in their hands and Milady has extricated Aramis from the dungeons. No longer Musketeers, they are now simply wanted criminals, and as such, they work out a way of getting the spymaster to the king.

With a solid plan of action in place, d'Artagnan goes to tell Athos that it's time to leave, interrupting a private conversation between him and his wife. It’s not sexual. There’s not even the crackle of desire that's invariably present between them, but they’re standing so close to each other and the emotion that pours off them is tangible.

Shocked by this, d’Artagnan speaks curtly. "We have to take Vargas to the king _now_ ," he snaps, hating himself for being so insensitive.

Athos is quieter than ever on the ride to the palace and d'Artagnan steals a moment for a quick apology. "I'm sorry. I honestly thought she was using you.” He stares at Athos. “I can see now that I was wrong.”

Athos stares at him. “It makes no difference,” he says, his face a mask.

The end of Rochefort is as gruesome as it should be, and with the king relieved of all concerns, including the paternity of his son, the four friends meets up at the avenue outside the palace.

“I have something to tell you,” says Aramis. “I made a vow to God when I was in the dungeons. I’ll be resigning my commission and retiring immediately to the monastery at Douai.”

“We won’t just let you go,” says d'Artagnan with fervour.

“No. He’s letting us go.” Athos approaches Aramis. "Goodbye, old friend," he says, and when he hugs him there is something soulful and more melancholy about the embrace than there should be.

D’Artagnan catches Athos afterwards, when Porthos is saying a final farewell to Aramis. “We parted badly and I hate it.”

“We parted and that is all that matters,” says Athos with a sad smile. They’re cocooned privately amongst a thicket of trees. “Marry Constance, d'Artagnan. Make things work. Be in love until the end of your days.”

“I will,” says d'Artagnan and he presses his lips hard against Athos' mouth for a final telling time. 

The marriage ceremony is all the more emotional with Athos responsible for giving Constance away. He should, perhaps, be handing d’Artagnan to her, but this is suitably symbolic.

Their planned two day honeymoon is cut short when Treville announces that hostilities have been declared against Spain. He is now the king's Minister for War and, as such, has promoted Athos to be the new captain of the Musketeers. D’Artagnan is delighted. He knows Athos will make a great commander and wants to congratulate him, but busy readying the regiment to march on the border, the man seems both distracted and downhearted.

Watching on from the walkway, d’Artagnan notices him exchange a look with Porthos then leap on his horse and ride out of the garrison gates. He returns, his horse plodding rather than cantering, when sun is about to set and candles in the guardhouse are being lit.

With the grooms turned in for the night, d’Artagnan grabs the opportunity to talk whilst Athos is untacking his horse in the near darkness of the stables. It's a site of one of their intimate moments, romantic though rather than sexual.

“Are you all right?” d’Artagnan asks awkwardly when he finds the man leaning against the wall of an empty loose box, his face buried in the crook of his arm.

“I missed her,” he says in a gruff voice. “I was supposed to meet her. Go with her, I suppose.”

“You were leaving us too,” states d’Artagnan and he can’t quite believe it. It does however explain that strange expression of empathy on Athos' face as he watched Aramis walk away. He wants to be angry, but the feelings he summons up are just as raw, yet very different in nature.

“I don’t know.” Athos' voice breaks under the strain. “I think perhaps I was.” He turns away from the wall and d’Artagnan has never seen anyone so distraught. “What do I do now?”

It’s natural to want to offer comfort to a friend, d’Artagnan tells himself. The hug between them is a warmth that he's missed, even though it’s only been a short time since they were together at the convent. The truth, however, is more complex; Athos' vulnerability has always been d’Artagnan's downfall. 

A hug becomes a kiss. A kiss becomes a desperate fumble of hands and cocks, and before he can return to his senses, d’Artagnan is on his back in a pile of fresh straw with Athos buried hilt deep inside him. He’s been married barely two days.

"We shouldn't be doing this," he gasps, but when Athos looks at him wide-eyed in the half light and goes to pull out, d’Artagnan clamps both legs around his body to hold him in place, kissing him fiercely, possessively on the mouth. "What excuse will I use for having needed a bath?"

"That you must be clean for the monks when we fetch their newest novice from Douai."

"Really?" says d’Artagnan with a sudden lightness of spirit.

"Aramis would never forgive us if we let him miss out on a war." 

Even though he cannot see it, d’Artagnan can tell that Athos' eyebrow is arched with wry amusement. At sudden peace with everything, he smiles and they return to their fuck with a renewed vigour. After all, it’s the French way to be married and have others on the side.

"I still love you," he gasps as Athos brings him off with a rough hand, coming inside him in a series of wonderfully punishing thrusts. 

"Despite everything, you make me happier than I ever thought possible," says Athos, as he sprawls over him in recovery.

"Thank you, Captain," smiles d'Artagnan, fingering the twist of material at Athos' neck: their own wedding band, to all intents and purposes. He still has faith that one day Athos will recognise his feelings and own up to them, but for now they are more complicated than ever. "Now move. I have bathing to be done and a wife to be getting back to. I can't lie around half naked with you all night, even if you are my commanding officer."

The next morning they leave for the monastery at Douai, under strict orders from Treville to be back in Paris before the regiment marches out. Hooves thunder along the lanes, as the three Musketeers go to bring their fourth back into the fold. There's purpose about this adventure, a sense of belonging that's been missing for well over a year, and the ride becomes a joyful race to fetch Aramis home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ends part one of their story, but I'm sure there'll be more. Thank you for all the encouragement and lovely comments.
> 
> xxx


End file.
